Sword of Fire and Sea by Hoffman Erin

Author:Hoffman, Erin [Hoffman, Erin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pyr
Published: 2011-06-27T16:00:00+00:00

The shipyard of Val Harlon was run by an old ship's carpenter known to the Rulorats—he'd even repaired the Quest a time or two. Stimson Allanmark seemed to have been crushed by the weight of the sun over his years, and had handled so much tar it now marked a permanent dappling on his hands and forearms. His beard, knotted with sea air, gave him a perpetually put-upon expression that made it difficult to tell when he was being friendly.

“Vidarian, my boy,” he greeted them, first bowing to Ariadel with polite correctness (and no more), then reaching to shake Vidarian's hand. “Nistra's gift to see you again. I wondered where you were, with the Quest anchored aught. Never seen you apart.”

“Strange times, my friend,” Vidarian said, and Stimson's thick eyebrows knit with agreement.

“Strange indeed,” he agreed, voice husky with seriousness. “Scuttlebutt is you've had some trouble with the fire priestesses. Beggin’ your pardon, my lady,” he gave another proper nod to Ariadel, though with an eyebrow inched in curiosity at Vidarian.

“There is a disagreement,” Vidarian agreed. With the knife ships blocking in his own, there was little point in arguing.

“You Rulorats and your mucking about.” Stimson chuffed. “I hope you can resolve it before you get an Imperial inquisitor's attention.”

“I'm working to address it presently,” he said. “But at the moment, what we need is a ship and an exit—outside the temple's sight.”

Stimson grunted, then turned and waved a gnarled and tar-stained paw for them to follow. “We should discuss this in my office.”

“You have an office?” The words escaped Vidarian before he could stop them, and Stimson turned back for just a moment, giving him a look that asked if it were entirely necessary for him to be quite so thick. Vidarian cleared his throat and motioned Ariadel to follow.

The yardmaster's “office” was the belly of a permanently drydocked galleon, a retired Imperial war-queen. Stimson led them through a heavy salvaged door that had been fit into a massive patched fissure in the hull. He hauled the door open, and before Vidarian's eyes could adjust, the yardmaster's voice carried a smile with his greeting: “Well, here's one might be able to help.”

The shadow of the familiar leather cap over inimitable riot of red curls came into view first, and Vidarian braced himself as he crossed the threshold.

For a moment it was like seeing a ghost. The bold figure perched on a supply barrel—white swordsman's shirt and black leather vest, longsword and main gauche at hips, black linen trousers disappearing into embroidered leather boots—was direct out of his childhood. Roana, from the mantle of red curls to her sardonic, challenging smile, was the spitting image of her mother as Vidarian had known her, sun-gilt and utterly unstoppable. The tattoos that curled around her neck and hands, indeed most visible patches of skin, were different ones, but they were in the same places.

“Queen Roana, I take it,” Ariadel glided in front of Vidarian, all smoky diplomacy. “I am Priestess Ariadel Windhammer. Vidarian has told me much about you.

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